Easy Mother

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, this one definitely got away from me. It happens. Hope you enjoy anyway. If there's enough interest, there might be more featuring these two. Who knows? Our narrator is 21 and his mother is 39, by the way.

*****

Thumpthumpthump.

I look up at the ceiling and sigh. More or less directly above where I'm sitting, my mother is having her brains fucked out by her new man Darren. Or is it Derek? I can't remember. I don't

want

to remember. I just want to be left in...

Thumpthumpthump.

They've got stamina. I'll give them that. I try to push the muffled noises from above me out of my mind and concentrate on the work on my desk. I've got an essay due in a couple of days' time and wrestling with the finer points of Shelley's

Epipsychidion

while your mother's getting shagged just a few feet above your head is not an easy task.

Thumpthumpthump.

Followed by a moan. A low, but distinctly female moan. A moan of ultimate orgasmic satisfaction. My blood apparently can't quite decide to rush to my face or my cock. I can feel my cheeks blush; my cock twitches. A little.

"Ohhhhhhh..."

Jesus! The whole street heard that! This is ridiculous!

I put my pen down. Shelley's idealization of love will have to wait. Of course, Shelley would probably have popped upstairs, knocked on the door and asked if he could join in. Perhaps he wouldn't have bothered to knock.

I get up from the desk, casting a quick glance at the pitiful quantity of notes I've made in the last few hours, and head for the kitchen. Coffee at this hour of the night is not really a good idea, but I've got to get this essay at least started tonight and I can't do that without having a clearer sense of what I want to say about the poem. I can do the close analysis well enough, but the overall scheme of the poem just hasn't clicked with me yet. I need to read it again. And for that I need coffee.

There's movement upstairs, a snatch of distant giggling. Naughty. Lascivious. Yeah, Shelley'd definitely be up for a bit of that.

I put the kettle on and scoop a generous helping of coffee into the cafetiere. The aroma is pleasant and I smile. It was my mum who first introduced me to the pleasures of 'proper' coffee, as she called it. I suppose if we wanted

really

proper coffee, we'd have ground it fresh from beans, but just the fact that it was a step up from instant was enough for her. She likes the finer things in life does my mother.

If only that applied to her taste in men.

I wait for the kettle to boil. Not long now. I think of my mother upstairs. I love her, but she drives me mad. She's flighty, silly. She doesn't think. Or, at least, she doesn't think

enough

. Ever since I can remember she's had men in her life. One after the other. A whole string of them traipsing in the front door, sitting in the living room, putting their feet up, staring at the television and occasionally - every so often - glancing across at me with anything from indifference to outright hostility etched into their faces.

I wish she could see that she was better than that. Better than them...

The kettle clicks off and I wait a few seconds before pouring the water onto the coffee. Don't want to burn the coffee. Another thing my wise and clever mother has taught me.

"Hi, love."

I look up and smile. I hadn't expected her down so soon and I hadn't heard the door go.

"Is Darren...?"

"Gone." She pulls a face. "And it's Derek."

"Right. Sorry."

I pick up the spoon, stir the grounds for a second or two and carefully put the lid and its plunger in place. My hand is shaking a little. I don't think Mum sees it.

I straighten up, look at her, smile again.

She smiles back.

"We were a bit..."

"It doesn't matter," I say hastily.

"But you're trying to study and..."

"No, really. It's fine. It's..."

"Well, I don't think it'll be happening again for a while..."

How many times have I heard that? I smile again. It's not at all difficult, this conversation. We have it all the time.

"Okay," I say.

"He's alright. Just..."

"Yeah." I half-turn to the cafetiere. "Do you want some coffee? There'll be enough for two cups or one large mug. I don't mind."

"No no," she says. "It's all right. I'm going to get off to bed in a minute."

I nod. "Yeah."

She smiles, then. A cheeky, knowing smile. "I bet you're thinking she spends enough time in bed, aren't you?" The smile broadens, becomes a fully-fledged grin. Her blue eyes twinkle.

I blush. My mother is beautiful. I've always thought that. At the moment, she looks beautiful and thoroughly fucked. Her dirty blonde hair, long and fine, is dishevelled and her deep red lipstick is smeared slightly at the corner of her mouth. She is wearing a nightie, the pink one with the lace trim. The pretty one. Mum has put on a bit of weight since she bought it. It's tight across her bust and tummy. The straps are thin and, where one is tight at her shoulder, the other is loose around her upper arm. Her right breast is not entirely exposed, but enough of its flesh is visible to have an impact on me. I blush but don't look away. Her skin is tanned and healthy. My mother is thirty-nine and beautiful. She has always been beautiful. For as long as I can remember.

"You're a little..." I gesture in the general direction of her chest and turn away, embarrassed, fiddling with the spoon by the cafetiere.

"Oh, sorry." She is all apology and an exaggerated demureness. "What must you think of me?" she asks, as if I haven't just spent the last half hour listening to her fucking Derek in the bedroom just above my head. She slips the strap back into place, recovers her modesty again. Well, what there is of it.

"I think you look great," I say. I say this without really meaning to. It just slips out and I instantly feel myself going red. "I mean... you know... I know I'm biased..."

She grins again. The blue eyes twinkle. "Oh, bless you. You're such a sweetie." And without thinking too much about it, she moves in and hugs me. I stiffen a little, but there's no escaping the warmth of her body. Or its softness. She smells of perfume and makeup and smooth skin and rough sex and her arms are around me and her body is pressed against me and my pulse is pounding and my cock is slowly getting bigger and I don't - I really don't - want her to feel it getting hard against her stomach. She holds the hug for a second or two and then draws back to look me in the eye and her gaze is suddenly quite clear and, although there is a playfulness in them, there is also something else. Something serious.

"You're a good boy," she says quietly. "You've always been a good boy." There is a sadness in her eyes now and it makes my heart lurch for an instant. "I've not been good, have I?"

"I don't..." She wants to do this? She wants to do this

now

? "I mean..." Her arms are holding me loosely. If I look down, I will see her breasts, the swell of them, the generous cleavage between them, their taut tanned skin. But I can't stop looking into her eyes. "I love you, mum," and I do. I mean it with every fibre of my being. "That's all that matters."

And she smiles then, touches my cheek with her hand. "I know you do," she says. "And I love you too." She moves away from me. "I'd best be off to bed. Don't be up too late."

I smile awkwardly. "Shelley waits for no man," I say, jokily.

She nods. "I'm sure she doesn't." And she turns, and I watch the tanned smoothness of her legs for a moment and I do not bother to correct her.

*

"Well. What do you think?"

It is a few days later, Shelley has been wrestled with and finally conquered, and my mother is off out again. Well, it

is

the evening. She stands in the centre of our pokey living room, one hand on her hip while the other holds a handbag that, if it were any smaller, I would need the aid of a microscope to see. The handbag, though, is not the most remarkable thing about the outfit. Not by a long shot.

"It's..." I pause. Moments like this are becoming increasingly difficult. Something has happened to me and my mother in the last few days. It's hard to put my finger on it precisely. She never used to ask for my opinion like this. She never seemed to care about what I thought about her clothes. And I never used to care that she didn't care.

"It's..."

"What?" Her eyes are narrowing suspiciously. I don't blame her. I'm usually better than this. Smoother, at any rate.

The problem is that the outfit my mother is wearing suits her figure perfectly. I don't know where she got it from, but it's black and cut in such a way as to emphasise my mother's undoubted femininity while not appearing excessively tight or vulgar. Some of my mother's outfits have made her look like a cheap party girl. And, truth be told, I've thought of her that way myself with a certain amount of disdain. Now, though...

"It really suits you," I say. "I mean, it

really

suits you."

She gives a shy smile then that I don't often see from her. It's a rare moment of vulnerability and it makes me love her even more. The black dress is low cut but not

too

low; the hem hangs just above the knees. For my mother, this is almost formal. The sleeves are short, leaving her tanned forearms bare. A couple of golden bracelets glitter in the light coming in through the living room window.

"And your hair..."

"Do you like it?" She primps and preens a little, running her fingers through the cascade of hair that hangs to one side of her face and falls onto her shoulder and chest. On the other side, the hair is scraped back and sculpted back and up. It is bold, dramatic; it looks amazing.

"It's gorgeous," I say simply.

Her face lighting up with a girlish smile, she dances a little jig of excitement. Her bracelets jingle and her body quivers with an energy that is almost tangible. "Oh, that's lovely. Come here and give your mum a hug."

I get up from the armchair and open my arms awkwardly and she rushes forward to enfold me in an embrace that is all warmth and softness and the kind of excited wriggling to which a twenty-one year old son really shouldn't be subjected by his mother. I am overwhelmed by her scent and the sensation of her body pressed against mine.

"Don't wait up for me."

She breaks the hug and heads for the door. There'll be a taxi outside in a minute. The driver will sound the horn and she'll be off in a whirl of perfume and finery and elegantly sculpted hair.

"Mum..."

"Yes?"

"Just... be careful, all right?" She smiles at me. "And sensible and..." An emotion I've not experienced before is rising in my chest, threatening to choke my words. I try to swallow it down, not wanting to think about what it might be. "Look, you're a special woman, Mum. A beautiful woman. You deserve someone who's..."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not looking for a husband."

"I know, but..."

The horn of the taxi sounds and she gives me an excited wave and leaves. I sit back down in the armchair and scan the nearby bookshelf listlessly. What was I trying to say? I don't really know, but I don't think I'm going to be satisfied until I finally find the words to say it properly.

*

It is late. I'm not sure how late, exactly. Two? Three? I am sitting up in bed thinking.

The house is small and neat. Two bedrooms; two small living rooms. A kitchen. A downstairs bathroom just beyond it. My room is small, but not especially neat. I am a hoarder, a collector. Books, magazines, CDs, comics. They're stacked and shelved and piled and, occasionally, scattered. Not that there's much room for scattering. Scattering is for new purchases that I haven't had time to put away. I don't know why I'm a collector of things I don't listen to or read or watch. Perhaps there's some genetic compulsion at work. Perhaps I collect things the way Mum collects men, although that's hardly fair. Mum only collects men one at a time and she doesn't leave them strewn around her bedroom either.

Perhaps I collect as an unconscious way of making up for a childhood that wasn't deprived exactly but wasn't prosperous either. Mum is an intelligent woman, but there's scant evidence of that in her CV. Bar jobs, café jobs, a two year stint as a shop assistant in Poundland and her current job as a part-time assistant for a local estate agent. The government subsidises her, subsidises my university course. I work at a nearby petrol station on the weekends. It's not enough. Not nearly enough, but at least it's something. I don't have lectures tomorrow, so it doesn't matter that I'm awake now.

Except it does.

Thumpthumpthump.

I've always loved my mother. And I've always known she was attractive. Even if I hadn't arrived at that conclusion myself, the steady supply of men my mother had enjoyed throughout my childhood would eventually have clued me in. I tell myself she's lonely. That she just wants companionship.

Thumpthumpthump.

But I think deep down I know...

Thumpthumpthump.

The walls between the rooms are thin, thin enough for me to hear...

"Oh, you like that, bitch."

Sometimes she chooses poorly. Sometimes the men want more than fun. Or their definition of 'fun' is different from hers. I listen closely. Something is stirring within me; something I haven't felt before.

Thumpthump.

"Fuck."

Sometimes they're like this. Sometimes it's not enough for them to fuck my mother. Sometimes they have to articulate their feelings of lust, of dominance.

"Fucking bitch."

Something sours in my gut. I've never liked this. I don't like it now. I swing my legs out of the bed. I'm just in my boxers and my tee-shirt and my scrawny, skinny body.

Slap!

"Aarrrghhhh!"

I'm out onto the landing before I really think about it. What am I going to do? I have no idea. My heart is racing. Adrenalin...

"You fucking cow. Yeah... Come on..."

... pumping through my bloodstream. I feel light-headed. Here but not here. There's something under my hand. It's the handle to my mother's bedroom. I'm standing in front of her door.

"Don't you dare..." Her voice, strong, defiant.

A sickening crack. The sound of something heavy being thrown against something hard.

"I'll do what I fucking want!" An animal roar, all brutality and male anger. Underneath, a horrible snivelling sound.

"Don't..." my mother whimpers. "Please don't."

I open the door.

In the right angle formed by the far wall and the wardrobe, my mother sits. It is as if she has been scrunched up and thrown there like a paper ball. She has shrunk, is shrinking, is trying her very best to make herself seem smaller.

Looming over her is her man. Naked, back tattooed with eagle's wings, buttocks small and thin, a sparse smattering of hair covering them and the backs of his legs. He's perhaps six feet tall, taller than me at any rate. His hair is dark brown and wavy. His arms are well-muscled. He turns to look at me.

"What do you want?"

My heart is pounding and it is a struggle to force the words out past the thickness in my throat. Perhaps that is why, when they do finally emerge, they appear to be almost preternaturally calm.

"You need to leave now."

He sneers and turns to face me. He has a paunch and a somewhat sunken chest. His left nipple is pierced by a steel ring. His dick is short and flaccid.

"Do I now?"

I nod. "Yes. Leave her alone." It is tempting to look at my mother, but I don't. Instead, I keep my gaze on him. On the monster in my mother's room.

"And who's going to make me?"

I wish I could think of something clever to say, something witty, but I cannot. I settle for repetition. That will have to do.

"Leave. Now."

He half-turns back towards my mother, who has suddenly become very still and very silent. I feel desperation begin to grow in my chest. I want this bastard out of our house now. I want to scream and yell and beat him with my fists. I take a deep breath.

"If you don't leave, I will call the police."

The first sign of uncertainty flickers in his eyes as he glances back at me.

"You'd call the pigs for this?" He gestures at my mother, contempt glittering in his eyes.

"Leave. Now."

He looks at me for a moment, appears to reach a decision. He gathers up his clothes from the floor and walks towards me quietly. I step aside to let him pass. My jaw is clenched shut. There are things I want to say, but all I can think about is that I want him out of the house, away from my mum. He is on the stairs before he pauses, calls back.

"Fucking slag!"

My mother jerks her head up at that, as if she is about to mouth a response of her own, but she sees me, stops herself. I keep my head turned in the direction of the stairs, hear him tread heavily down the stairs, hear him fumble with his clothes for a few seconds, hear the door open and slam shut behind him.

An unbearable tension drains from my body and I half-walk, half-stagger into my mother's room and sit heavily down on the bed. My mother's hand is just inches from my left foot. Its fingernails are polished cerise; the arm it's attached to is smooth and tanned. Her head hangs down and her hair covers her face.

I let out a sigh.

"Bloody hell," I say. "Who was that?"

My mother mumbles something. She's still not looking at me. From where I'm sitting I can't tell what, if anything, she's wearing, but it doesn't appear to be much. Belatedly, I realise I need to see how physically hurt she is and whether I should call an ambulance. I also realise that I'm sitting on my mother's bed in my tee-shirt and boxers and I really wish I was somewhere else.

Awkwardly, I slide off the bed and join my mother on the floor. It's crowded in the tiny space between her bed, the bedside table, the wall and the wardrobe. I can smell the alcohol on her breath and her stale perfume and the subtle salt scent of tears and, perhaps, something else. I try to forget about the something else and touch her tentatively on the arm.

"Mum?"

She mumbles again.

"Mum, I just need to have a look at you and see what the..."

I was going to say 'damage'. I was going to say 'what the damage is', but I see her react. A slight stiffening of her posture. A tiny turning of her head away from me. Alright.

"What the situation is." I pause, looking at her. I should move her hair away from her face, try to look her in the eye. "Mum?"

She nods, pauses as if steeling herself and looks up at me, almost defiantly.

Look at me,

she's saying.

Look at how stupid I've been.

There is a cut above her right eye and it is oozing blood. Her eye make up has smudged and forms grey rings around her eyes, which are puffy and bloodshot. There is a bruise on her right cheek which looks like it will be nasty in the morning. The left side of her face appears unharmed and, although there are one or two scratches on her arms, the rest of her looks mostly untouched.

My mother does not appear to be wearing anything and I am painfully aware that, if I divert my gaze a few inches down, I will see her breasts. I keep my eyes tightly focused on her face.

"I'm going to get something to clean up that cut and make you look presentable."

I move in order to get up, but her face chooses that moment to crumple and huge heaving sobs wrack her body. Something powerful and muscular surges and twists in my gut and I reach for her without really thinking about it, putting my arm around her, holding her. She leans into the hug, flinging her arms up and around me and almost knocking me over onto my back. I thrust my arm out behind me just in time and manage to steady myself, but the weight of her against me threatens to topple us over and I endure a few seconds of trying to manoeuvre as gently as I can the quivering, sobbing, naked woman who is clinging tightly to me.

Eventually, I manage to inch back towards the bed until I can lean against it, while a combination of coaxing and careful manhandling results in her sitting on my lap while her head nuzzles against my chest. I hold her for a few seconds, waiting for her to calm but calm seems to be a long time in coming and the weight of her and the closeness of her and the warmth of her skin and the softness of her and the great swell of love I feel for her that feels as big as the world and yet somehow has managed to fit painfully inside my chest... all these things are working on me and...